His tone, his smile were endearments; to her alone that evening had he shown anything of his usual manner; this his thanks for her patient sympathy.
"Good-night," she answered.
He stepped out on to the terrace; the moon was directly overhead and the trees mighty with black shadows; the white flowers looked as if carved out of silver, and the red tulips, half seen, seemed to pulse in the obscurity of the shade cast by the gleaming balustrade.
Rose Lyndwood looked up at the house; in his mother's room burnt a pale light; he glanced down again at Miss Chressham standing before the ruddy candle glow of the chamber he had just left; bright colour showed in her scarlet dress, in her heated cheeks and brilliant eyes; she had one hand on her bosom, and her slack fingers were soft and fair.
"Good-night," he said again, and turned away towards the shallow steps.
Miss Chressham watched him go; the stillness was, to her, rent with voices—Marius speaking in the hot bitterness of youth, Lady Lyndwood weeping complaining words, the soft tones of Selina Boyle and the sad laugh of Rose Lyndwood.
"Rose Lyndwood." She repeated the name to herself, then closed the window and drew the heavy curtain across the prospect of the stars.